Livi repressed the urge to roll her eyes, but her mum, with her small hand still engulfed in his, was completely charmed. “Oh,” she managed. “Oh, thank you.”
“Well,” said Rachael, looking around at them all. “This has been a very successful day so far. I have some time left before my function starts. Can I take you all out to lunch? My treat. Evelyn?”
“Oh, I wish I could, but I have to go to work.” She looked terribly disappointed.
“And I’m afraid I have to go back to work too,” Mattias said regretfully. “I have a very long and boring Finnish government report to translate for an EU meeting.”
Livi looked at her watch. She’d barely done any work herself today. She started to decline too, but Cass, whose ears were flapping enough to lift her off the ground, called out, “No, you have to eat after all, go and enjoy yourself.”
But as she was gathering her things to go, with the worst timing, Nicolette rang. She was on her way. Cass and Livi both knew there would be no lunch breaks now. Her visits were always a whirlwind of purposeful activity, everyone rushing madly around until she swirled back out the door.
“Next time then,” Rachael insisted, giving Livi her business card. “Definitely next time.”
“Next time,” Livi promised, and they hugged goodbye. “Say hi to Helena from us.”
Mattias paused before he followed Rachael and Scott out the door. “I think now you might let me take you out,” he said. “Tomorrow night? Shall I meet you here after work?”
“That will be fine,” her mum told him, still entranced.
“Mum!” Livi said. But then she realised Will was right. Time to pay the piper. “That will be fine,” she echoed.
He nodded with satisfaction. “Good. It was very nice to meet you, Evelyn.” Another gentlemanly handshake, and he was gone.
“Oh, Livi,” her mum sighed, straining her neck to watch his tall Scandinavian form disappear down the street. “He is lovely.”
* * *
Nicolette swooped in, not so much a tornado as a diminutive blonde waterspout, spilling over with plans and determination.
“It’s time to get serious,” she announced. “Peach is a success, in itself, but we can do so much more. I want to get this place whipped into shape, and then we’re expanding. I want more Peaches. A tree-full!”
Livi didn’t know what had brought on this latest sudden urge for empire-building. Maybe it was the departure of another toy-boy. But she knew there’d be work ahead, at least until Nicolette got distracted by her personal life again—which probably wouldn’t take long.
As she was handing over a list of jobs, Nicolette saw Rachael’s card tucked under the corner of the telephone.
“Mingled Yarn Films? That’s the production company Jake invested in.”
Ah, Jake. Livi got ready for a repeat of Nicolette’s Jake Michaelson story. One party night in the eighties (one night among many), she met him in a club when he was visiting from LA. He wasn’t single then really but, you know, he only had to raise one wicked eyebrow… She was always coy on the details, thankfully, but apparently he nicknamed her his peach. And thus the salon, when she opened it years later, had its name.
Now, despite her everyday cougar tendencies, she took a persistent interest in all of Jake’s activities, and had managed to maintain contact over the years. From what Livi had seen of their few emails (which Nicolette couldn’t resist showing off) there was a hint of half-heartedness on his part, but she supposed he wasn’t one to burn bridges with an attractive woman of any age. Now Nicolette held up the card.
“Where did this come from?”
When Livi told her the story, including how they’d helped Helena (but not how they’d juggled clients), she was pleased.
“You did very well, Livi. I hope she tells Jake about it. Maybe he’ll want to catch up next time he’s in London.” Invigorated by the idea, she clapped her hands sharply. “Come on then, let’s get this project underway. I’ll be back soon to see how you’re getting on. In the meantime, I think I’ll send Jake an email.”
Once she was gone, everyone breathed freely again. “I suppose she does realise how old he is now,” Cass commented, to no one in particular.
Livi just shrugged, and looked at her list. Review client database, get quotes for bathroom renovation, research new inventory control software…the bullet points went on and on. She mentally added another: pay rise for long-suffering staff members. Mind you, the way things were going with her personal life, the extra work could be just the distraction she needed.
Thirteen
The next morning—the morning of the date—was the first in weeks that Mattias didn’t show up with hot chocolate. This inspired a new round of teasing.
“He’s hoping you’ll wonder where he is,” Aidan said. “And worry that maybe he’ll stand you up tonight. Then you’ll be super-glad to see him, for once.”
“Ooh, psychological games,” Cass said. “That’s very sly.”
“Maybe he isn’t coming. Maybe a delegation from the EU has him in a dark room, shining a light in his eyes, determined to extract government secrets.” Will made spooky finger-wiggles.
Livi just shook her head at them. “Seriously, aren’t there things you should be doing?” She was more than busy herself.
Despite their speculation, Mattias arrived at five thirty, looking clean and shiny. “We missed you today,” said Will.
“EU,” he replied gravely.
“Ah,” Will nodded, with suitably serious eyebrows, then had to turn away to stifle a laugh. If Mattias noticed that they were all suddenly deeply occupied elsewhere, he didn’t let on. Livi decided to ignore them.
“I’m ready,” she said, pulling on her green coat and turning him towards the door. “Shall we go?”
As they walked, Mattias said, “I hope you don’t mind, I got tickets to a Swedish movie. When I saw it was showing I really wanted to take you. It came out years ago, but it’s very good. My Life as a Dog.”
She frowned, not quite with him. “Your life as…?”
“No, My Life, as a Dog. Mitt Liv som Hund. I know, it sounds strange, but I think you’ll like it.”
“Okay. I’ll trust you.”
But she wasn’t hopeful. All she knew about Swedish movies was Ingmar Bergman, and she hadn’t seen any of them all the way through. Something about strawberries came to mind, and playing chess with Death. Black and white. Depressing.
But to her surprise, she did enjoy the movie. She had misgivings at first—maybe it would be too sad—but as it continued she was mesmerised. Mesmerised, that is, once Mattias stopped leaning over every few minutes, translating.
“Mattias!” she finally hissed. “I can read the subtitles!”
“I know,” he whispered, “but they leave out so much detail. I don’t want you to miss anything.”
She gritted her teeth, formulated a polite reply. “Every time you give me the details I’ve just missed, I miss what the next subtitles say, so I fall even further behind. It’s better to just let me read.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
He turned back to the screen. Even in the half dark she could see he looked a little sheepish. He held out a bag of Minstrels, a peace offering, and they settled back to watch.
After the movie, he took her to a French restaurant. “Not a Swedish restaurant?” she teased as the waiter showed them to their seats.
“Well, to be honest, not everyone is a fan of Swedish food,” he replied earnestly.
She decided not to try and make any smorgasbord jokes, and instead picked up her menu.
“Oh, ratatouille—” she began.
“That’s a vegetable stew, very nice,” he said.
“Mmm.” She had a feeling where they were heading. “And cassoulet—”
“Yes, now that’s made with sausages and beans and—”
He stopped when he saw her face.
She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You know, I watch
the Good Food channel. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen Rick Stein cook cassoulet. Also, I did actually study French at school, probably just as much as you.” In truth, she’d forgotten most of it—but she could manage restaurant French. “Plus, there are descriptions of each dish right here on the menu. So thank you, but I really don’t need you to interpret for me.”
He blinked, looking a bit stunned, and she realised that irritation had made her words sound harsher than she intended. They both studied their menus for what seemed like a long while, and she felt very sorry that she’d said anything. It would have been better if she’d turned down his invitation altogether, despite her mother’s enthusiasm. But then he cleared his throat.
“Mia always tells me I’m a know-it-all,” he said. “But I’m worse when I’m nervous. I’m sorry.” With a slight blush showing below his soft blond hair, he looked like a chastened schoolboy.
Now she felt terrible. He really was a lovely guy, and it wasn’t his fault if his niceness wasn’t enough to spark anything in her.
“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. You were just trying to help, thank you. Let’s just order and enjoy our dinner, it’s so nice here.”
He smiled at her, obviously relieved. “I’ll order some wine while you choose.”
For the rest of the night she was as patient and carefully well-mannered as she could be. After two glasses she refused any more wine, for fear her tongue would loosen and get away on her again. By the end of the evening, when she said goodnight at the Leicester Square tube—receiving a genteel kiss on the cheek—all the graciousness was a weight in her chest. She ran down the stairs, feeling it dislodge a little more with each jolting step. She decided not to wonder whether it was some deficiency in her character, that such a perfectly decent person could make her so cranky and impatient. He didn’t deserve that. So, whatever the reason, this would definitely, definitely, be her one and only date with Mattias.
* * *
She arrived home to find a date going on in her living room. A date with a chaperone—Cass, in the corner, looking unimpressed. On the more comfortable of their two settees sat her mum, glass of wine in hand as she chatted happily away to a middle-aged man. He was tanned and solid, with a well-weathered face that spoke of a life in the sun. It was still handsome, despite an alarming arrangement of greying facial hair.
Livi made a silent appeal to Cass, who could only shrug. Then her mum noticed her.
“Livi! How was your night, sweetheart?”
Her cheeks were prettily flushed and her eyes shone. Livi hoped it was due to the wine, not the man beside her. With his arm resting along the back of the sofa, he looked perfectly at home.
“Oh, it was okay,” she said. “How was your first day of Royal London?”
“Marvellous!” she exclaimed. “Len and I were just saying, it’s a wonderful thing to have a city so stuffed full of history. That’s something you just don’t get in New Zealand.”
“Or in Australia.” Len arose and put down his glass. He smoothed his moustache down on each side to meet the thin line of beard that led up to his ears. Then he held out his hand. “Len Mortlock,” he pronounced, in an unmistakable twang. “It’s a real pleasure. Evelyn’s told me all about you.”
He had the smoothly provocative air of a man who might or might not be flirting, and knew he could get away with it. But tonight, Livi just wasn’t in the mood. She considered the whisker-tainted hand, then switched her bag over to her own right hand. She’d already used up all her good grace for the night.
“Really? When did she have time to do that?”
Her mum gave her a sharp look, but Len appeared unmoved.
“Well, tonight of course. She was my guide today, my angel of London.”
There was a sort of snort from the corner. Livi looked at Cass, who sought refuge in her wine glass.
“I’m sure she was,” she replied. “You’ll have to excuse me, I have an early start tomorrow.”
There was nothing more she wanted to see here, especially in her Mattias-saturated state. Bed was the only place for her now, preferably with the blankets over her head. A state of denial is best maintained in the dark, she believed.
“Ah, what a shame. It was a pleasure to meet you, love.”
Len reached again for her hand, but she side-stepped neatly and waved around the room instead.
“Goodnight, everyone. Don’t let me ruin the party.”
Her tone was obvious to the women in the room, but Len, seemingly oblivious again, lifted his glass with a jovial wink.
“Always a party when Mortlock’s in the house, you’re right there,” he said, stroking down the tufts under his nose as he looked at her. “Another time, love. Another time.”
Avoiding her mother’s eye, she escaped to her bedroom and shut the door. Teeth and face would have to wait until the coast was clear. She could hear the continuous bass of his voice, running over the top of her mother’s, through the wall. How long would he stay, she wondered, as she put on her pyjamas. With her mum sleeping in the living room—also for an unspecified duration—there was no way to avoid hearing them. Oh God, she suddenly thought, please don’t let me hear anything…you know… Mercifully, her brain refused to form the rest of the words in her head, but it was too late. The idea was there. She burrowed under the covers and put a pillow over her head. From the muffled darkness she sent out a fervent plea, willing it around the curve of the earth, into morning light in the far distant south. Come on, Dad. Come on. Come and get her. Where are you?
* * *
Some hours later she woke with a jolt, panicky and overheated in her cocoon. She flung off the comforter and felt around in the darkness for her bottle of water. There was silence in the flat. She sat on the edge of the bed, flapping her pyjama top in an effort to cool off, and considered whether to risk going out there. In the end, a desperate need for the toilet decided it.
Outside her bedroom door, she paused in the narrow passage and strained her ears. No muffled, suspicious sounds, no voices, no man-snoring. She crept along to the living room and peeped in. Her mum was tucked up asleep on the sofa, alone, the length of her only just fitting between its rolled arms. She breathed out. Relief.
In the bathroom, she used the toilet and then cleaned her teeth, banishing any remaining hints of the infamous but delicious cassoulet, the red wine, the luxurious chocolate bavarois. Then she pulled out a cleansing cloth and wiped away what was left of her makeup. Barefaced, she assessed herself in the mirror. A challenging night, manners-wise. She decided to put it down to extreme provocation. Her mother might be an angel of London, but she saw no sign of a halo in her own reflection. Nor was she aiming for one. Just keeping on top of earthly things was enough for now.
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: What happened next
* * *
The rogue mother is now employed. A walking tour guide of Royal London. She won’t say how long she’s planning to work for, only that she’ll be able to find her own place when she gets paid. No idea what this means for her and Dad, but I do know that he’d go nuts if he knew she was bringing men home from work with her. Well, okay, just one, a silver-tongued Australian.
On the plus side, we had a brush with Hollywood. A movie producer came in to get her hair done. She was desperate to get the film rights for an Estonian book she loved, and I organised for Mia’s cousin to help her with some translation to close the deal. It was a glimpse into a whole other world.
Hope you and the hairy James got that paper wrestled into shape.
xxx
* * *
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: What happened next
* * *
We nailed it. James has decided to shave in celebration if it’s accepted, so keep your fingers crossed—I’m sick of looking at crumbs in that moustache.
> Your mum is full of surprises. (Bit like someone else I know.) I hope she’ll figure things out, for all your sakes. I suppose a lot of people start to reassess things once they hit a certain age. I’m planning a really expensive bike at around fifty. Ducati maybe. Or, if I’m an old fart by then, a really high-spec Goldwing. It takes two.
Your visit from Hollywood sounds good. Maybe you’ll get a mention in the film. There are so many obscure jobs in the credits, surely ‘book deal translation facilitator’ could be included.
Have a good weekend.
(Beware dodgy Australians.)
xxx
Fourteen
Nothing is ever like it is in the movies, Livi had come to realise. Since arriving in London, she had never once seen Gwyneth Paltrow dashing to catch a tube, or not catch a tube. There was no old lady sitting on the steps of St Paul’s, imploring her to feed the birds, though who knew what tuppence was worth these days. American werewolves were nowhere to be found (probably a good thing, she had to admit). Henry Higgins had never appeared to suggest they must do something about her accent. And, most disappointingly of all, although she once hovered around eighteen yards or so from that doorway on Portobello Road (no longer blue, sadly), Hugh Grant didn’t bump into her, apologetic and endearing. Maybe she should try again, armed with a large pair of sunglasses, though she drew the line at a beret. Most days she felt more Bridget than Julia, but still, when she visited Mia in Notting Hill, an unreasonable hope persisted, a feeling of possibility. If not Hugh (or Colin) then maybe…something.
So when Mia suggested that she and Cass should come and stay at her place during the Notting Hill carnival, Livi was keen. Plus, it would distract her from her family difficulties and the issue of the (possibly warped) American while she waited for September the first and Golders Green.
The Near & Far Series Page 65
